


we don't hold hands

by echidna_monstermom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, M/M, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Post-Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:13:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25683346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echidna_monstermom/pseuds/echidna_monstermom
Summary: As two fated enemies and renowned geniuses--two sides of one coin--circle one another ever closer in a dangerous game, clandestine meetings and plots start to look suspiciously like dates...--This is me rewriting everything after S1E3 to suit my need for two emotionally crippled men to find eventual love and understanding in each other.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

“John, I’m  _ dying _ .”

“As someone who’s been to medical school, no one’s ever actually died of boredom, Sherlock. But who knows, maybe you’ll be the first. Where did you put my keys?”

Sprawled out on the sofa, Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and groaned as John continued getting ready for work. 

“We haven’t had a case in  _ seventeen days _ . Nothing.” 

“You really need to pick up another hobby. Have you considered knitting? Maybe a book club? Why are my keys in the refrigerator?” 

“Why do you have to go to the clinic today? It’s not as though the elderly can’t survive one more day of back pain and constipation without you.”

Pocketing the refrigerated keys, John continued, “Because at least one of us should have a steady income to pay the rent. You know, you could get a proper job. It’s not exhilarating, but it passes the time.” He paused suddenly, smiling to himself. “If nothing else because the image of you serving chips to teenagers would be just incredible.” Sherlock uncovered his eyes to glare murderously across the room. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re clever. You can find something to entertain yourself for today.” He paused, then quickly amended, “Something legal.”

Sherlock curled onto his side miserably. “Just go.” 

“There’s still takeaway in the fridge, if you haven’t moved it to make room for something horrible. Please remember to eat today.” The door clicked shut behind him. 

Sherlock grumbled something uncharitable and mentally prepared for another day of sulking when he heard the small, familiar beep of his cellphone. He pounced on it with the desperation of an addict after a fix. A dark picture, no message attached. Enlarged, it seemed to have been taken from the top of a building, at either dusk or dawn, showing the streets and buildings below...nothing particularly remarkable. Another beep, another picture--

This one made Sherlock’s stomach drop. 

The photo showed Mrs. Hudson holding a newspaper clearly marked with today’s date. The phone beeped again and a message from the same number flashed across the screen.

_ See you then and there. _

Okay, clearly a threat. The first order of business was to call Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock didn’t keep a contact library, but he had memorized the very short list of numbers that mattered to him. Unsurprisingly, the call went directly to voicemail. 

Back to the game.  _ Game _ . For a moment, he felt a twinge of guilt at his mounting excitement, but this quickly abated as he opened the first picture again for examination. The phone number was unfamiliar, but he could think of only one possible sender. He hadn’t felt his heart pound with this kind of anticipation in far too long. 

The picture was poor quality, but one building across the street clearly had a red roof with a paved area in front for seating. A restaurant. An adjacent building appeared to be a beige apartment complex with a fire hydrant in front, and the building from which the picture was taken was maybe ten stories higher. First, under the assumption this was somewhere in London, Sherlock quickly cross referenced this information with his mental map of the city. If the sun was setting and the photographer was facing west...then it could be the old office building across the street from an Italian restaurant. And if the sun was setting, that gave him a place and time to meet. 

Sherlock drummed his fingers against his leg. John would still be at work by sunset, and besides, this didn’t feel like an invitation for more than himself. Not to mention that he knew where John hid his firearm, just to be safe. This was almost certainly some kind of trap, but to what end? His brain gnawed at itself. He stared at the screen still clutched in his hand, willing something new to flash across it, some further snippet, knowing deep down that none would come. He groaned impatiently and chunked the device onto the sofa. 

It was going to be a long day waiting. 

\---

After a day of pacing, frenetic violin playing, and frequent trips to the window to watch the slow path of the sun, the changing light quality announced, at last, evening’s approach. Sherlock had the cab park a couple blocks away from the old office building and did his best not to sprint the rest of the way. The dumpster in the alleyway afforded a perfect landing from which to grab the bottom rung of the fire escape ladder and pull himself up. 

As he ascended the final rungs of the ladder, he spotted a small male silhouette about 10 meters away, facing away towards the lights of the city below. Sherlock pulled himself onto the roof and swallowed the lump forming in his throat. 

“Moriarty.”

No response. Sherlock reached for the gun holstered at his waist before cautiously edging forward. 

“Hey--”

This time the man turned his head in profile, and Sherlock glimpsed a smile of recognition. Moriarty himself, not a proxy. With leisurely deliberation, the man removed one earbud, then another, before carefully placing the cord into his suit pocket and turning to face him. 

“You came,” Moriarty beamed, as if Sherlock had had an alternative. Sherlock aimed the handgun at center mass. 

Moriarty glanced down at the weapon and clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Don’t be tedious, dear. It really is cute that you brought it with you, but you won’t be needing it.” He grinned and spread his arms out in a T. “You can pat me down if it makes you feel any better.”

Sherlock lowered the muzzle. “What’s the point? Even if you’re not armed, you’ve got someone nearby who is.” Moriarty flashed a half smile and responded only with a slight shrug of his shoulders. 

“Where is Mrs. Hudson?”

“Who? Oh--the landlady?” He waved a hand dismissively. “She’s probably having a lovely time in East Sussex.” In response to Sherlock’s expression of bewilderment, he continued, “She and Roy have been out a few times. I asked him to surprise her with an impromptu vacation this weekend. Here. He sent me a selfie earlier.” Moriarty reached into his jacket pocket, pulled up a photo, and held it out at arm’s length. Mrs. Hudson beamed next to the same burly man from the earlier picture, both of them fully equipped with floppy hats, sunglasses, and beachwear. The photo was time stamped with today’s date, 3:37 PM. 

“Go ahead, call her right now. I can wait.”

Frowning, Sherlock punched her number into his cell phone. It rang five times before Mrs. Hudson, slightly breathless, answered with a concerned, “Sherlock? What’s happened?”

“Mrs. Hudson, where are you right now?”

“Oh--sorry dear, we left in a hurry this morning. I’m actually with Roy, he rented the cutest little house off the beach this weekend and--”

Sherlock abruptly interrupted with the end call button. He glanced up at Moriarty, brow furrowed. “So enlighten me, what exactly is the point of you pretending to threaten my landlady?”

“Well,  _ one _ , don’t misunderstand me. I am threatening her. Don’t forget who Roy works for. Her weekend can easily become much worse. And  _ two _ , it’s not as if you would’ve listened to me if I had just asked you over for a chat.”

“You might be surprised. Next time, try asking first.” Moriarty’s smile in response seemed almost genuine; this one reached his eyes. “What are we chatting about?” 

To his frustration, Sherlock found himself struggling to keep his voice even and ignore the queasy knot in the pit of his stomach, the cold prickling on the back of his neck. Typically in dangerous situations, the rush of adrenaline was exhilarating, but presently, it bordered on debilitating. Fear. He wasn’t used to feeling fear. 

Moriarty shook his head slowly in mock disappointment. “No, ‘hello, how have you been?’ We haven't seen each other in so long. Here, one of us should have manners. How are you? And your little doctor?”

“...you mean, John?” 

“Sure. He’s adorable, by the way. Not my type, of course. I prefer mine...taller.” Whether it was the way Moriarty drew out that last syllable, or the deliberate manner in which he raked his gaze from shoes back to eye level, Sherlock felt his skin crawl. 

“You prefer your  _ what  _ taller?”

Moriarty tipped his head to one side. “That is the question, isn’t it?” He spun on one heel and began pacing. “Though you should really be careful about how attached you get to your pets. In my experience they never last long--”

“He’s fine,” Sherlock interjected. “I’m fine. I would be better if you tell me why you threatened me onto this roof.”

Moriarty pressed his mouth into a thin line. “I have a proposition for you. An invitation.”

“An invitation to what?”   
  


“Think of it as a kind of networking event for people in my line of work.” Moriarty contorted his mouth into an exaggerated grimace. “Work functions, I know. A necessary evil. But they can be a bit more bearable with a guest.”

This was not the conversation Sherlock was expecting to have. He frowned. “Why? What do you want?”

“The pleasure of your company.” A skeptical silence. “Not buying it?” He smiled apologetically, then, shrugging, “So? Do we have a date?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Always. You can turn around and head home right now, if you’d like.” 

Sure. And yet…even if he could, without threat of violence, climb down the fire escape, hail a cab, and go home to bed, Sherlock knew that he still couldn’t escape the oppressive curiosity gnawing at the inside of his skull. He felt the silent challenge in the other man’s shit eating grin. He exhaled and felt his shoulders deflate slightly. 

“Fine. I’ll see you…when, exactly?”

“When I call for you. Alright, dismissed.” Moriarty waved his hand as if swatting away a fly. Before Sherlock could utter a word of protest, Moriarty had already turned his back and was motioning to replace his earbuds. And that, apparently, was that. 

Sherlock remembered the weight of the firearm in his hand, for all the good it would do. He couldn’t escape the constant, looming threat of violence that colored every interaction with Moriarty. On that note, he quickly resolved to avoid mentioning this to John until he had more information. Knowing would likely just put him more at risk, and besides, Sherlock could feel this one out on his own for now. 

Sherlock climbed back down the ladder and began walking. He decided against a cab home; he wanted more time to think. 

\---

The call came a week later, just as Sherlock sat down to tea. 

“Dear?” Mrs. Hudson poked her head into the flat. “There’s a cab out front for you--gentleman says you were expecting him?” 

Sherlock felt his heart flutter in his chest. He had no scheduled appointments with clients that day. 

“Be right out.” He grabbed his coat and was striding across the room as the words left his mouth. 

“Be safe, dear.”

“Sure,” he answered absently. As he closed the door behind himself, he glanced into the cab at the curb and sure enough, in the rear sat a small suited figure in aviator shades. 

Mouth pressed into a hard line, Sherlock steadied himself with a breath and slid into the adjacent cab seat. “Afternoon.”

Without turning his head, Moriarty removed one ear bud at a time before sliding up his sunglasses and flicking his gaze lazily towards Sherlock. “Oh, hey.”

_ Oh, hey _ . A fabulous way to greet your kidnapping victim. The cabbie began driving. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Is there any point in my asking where we’re going?”

“Sure. We’re going to get you a suit.”

“...a suit.”

“Yes. I mean, the homeless drug addict look is cute. Really, it works for you. But I have a reputation and I  _ cannot  _ be seen with you dressed like that at this event.”

Sherlock felt a surge of defensive anger, followed by a second wave of frustration with himself for being genuinely hurt by this comment. “ _ This _ is not my homeless drug addict look. And I have suits.”

“See, but don’t you like playing dress up? Your little costumes?”

“I have worn disguises in the past when they were useful. I wouldn’t call it ‘playing dress up.’”

“So just pretend you’re disguised as someone with good taste.”

Sherlock glowered and instinctively pulled at his collar. Moriarty sighed. “I know, you’re very attached to the coat. I didn’t mean to insult the coat. I just meant to insult...everything under it. Besides,” he continued, “you’ll like it once you have it on. A well tailored suit makes you look taller.”

“Didn’t seem to work out for you.” Sherlock briefly considered that he should try harder to filter his thoughts from brain to mouth, but Moriarty’s startled, venomous glare was absolutely worth it. 

Mercifully, they spent the next fifteen in (an albeit uncomfortable) silence before the cab slowed in front of a small storefront with white painted window boxes. Moriarty strode wordlessly up to the door and stepped inside. Sherlock followed after. Inside, the shop was snug and warmly lit, thick bolts of fabric hung from one wall, a small number of suit jackets neatly arranged by color on another. A broad, olive skinned man glanced up from his work behind a tall counter in the back and beamed. He met Moriarty at the door and greeted him warmly with a quick kiss on each cheek. 

“ _ Ciao,  _ Gustavo.”

“Jim!  _ È passato troppo tempo _ ! What can I do for you today?”

“Gus, please help this man.” Moriarty clapped Sherlock on the shoulder; Sherlock curled his lip and shrugged the hand off. 

“Of course. What do you have in mind?  _ Un abito a tre pezzi _ ?”

“Oh, absolutely. Maybe Cambridge grey, a wool-cashmere blend?” Moriarty eyed him appraisingly. “He could wear blue. I trust your judgement.” 

“And I don’t suppose I get a say in this,” Sherlock interjected. 

“You suppose correctly. Gus will call you when it’s ready. Be dressed and ready next Friday, 8 PM. I’ll be seeing you then.  _ Ciao _ .” And with that, he slid his aviators back on, popped in his other earbud, and backed out the front door with a small wave. 

“Sir, may I take your coat so we can start your measurements?” 

While Sherlock was sorely tempted to say no and walk straight out, better judgement told him that the safer option was to play along with this idiotic game for now. He grunted and reluctantly lifted his arms so his coat could be removed. Gus draped it over a bare dress form and began taking fastidious measurements with a well worn tape measure, muttering numbers under his breath as he went. 

“So, how long have you known our dear Jim?”

“Ah, it would be several years now. My favorite customer. An excellent eye.”

“Expensive tastes, I’m sure.”

Gus smiled and nodded enthusiastically as he retrieved a thick leather bound book of fabric samples and began holding various swatches against Sherlock’s skin. “He was right, you could wear blue nicely.”

“Excellent. Can we speed this up? My tea is cold by now, but I’d like to get back to it.”

Gus glanced up with a look of mild disapproval and continued his measurements--inner leg, hip to ankle, hip to floor, waist, back, shoulders. This continued for several more minutes before he clapped his hands together, nodding quietly to himself with an air of satisfaction. 

“ _ Molto bene.  _ Two days, I will call you for adjustments.”

“And you already have my number, of course.”

The older man smiled kindly. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr…”

“Holmes. The pleasure was all yours. Good day.” Sherlock grabbed his coat on the way out and felt immediately safer with it back on. Tugging up the collar, he glanced sideways himself in the shop window as he walked.  _ Homeless drug addict _ . Hardly. No one looked this sharp after a heroin binge. Sherlock walked a little taller as he strode into the street for a cab home. 

Now, for his favorite activity: more waiting. 

\---


	2. Chapter 2

Just as promised, the suit arrived in the afternoon two days later. 

It came simply but beautifully wrapped in thick paper. The wool blend was a vibrant blue that popped against the crisp white tailored shirt and golden silk tie in the package. Sherlock curled his lip and held the jacket up in front of a mirror. He never would have chosen the frankly garish color himself, but he also had to begrudgingly admit that it did bring out a striking icy blue in his eyes. He folded the whole parcel up and shoved it roughly under his bed. 

“Sherlock? What did you get in the mail?” John called from the other room. 

Sherlock ignored this and began pacing the floor again, something that he had been doing a lot of recently. The problem in dealing with Moriarty was his unpredictability. Ordinary people were ultimately motivated by fairly simple factors: money, lust, attachment to a child or spouse or other family member, fear of dying. Easy. Boring. Moriarty, even from their limited interaction, was clearly a different animal, something more like himself. The consulting criminal to his consulting detective. Another made-up job title invented to avoid the agony of living inside a mind that never switched off. 

And thus, no matter how he wracked his brain, Sherlock could not deduce the meaning of this invitation. If he was being led to an execution, why the elaborate charade of the suit? Clearly, the other man had access to his personal life and could manipulate him into meeting alone. Sherlock felt as though he had overlooked a move in chess and the feeling was driving him absolutely mad. 

“Sherlock, you’re going to pace a hole in the floor.” John now leaned against the frame of the door. The tone of his voice suggested he was trying to hide his concern, while the furrow in his brow divulged it. “How about we go for a walk outside? Y’know, I read a book once where the character knew the streets so well he walked with his eyes closed. You could try walking blindfolded.”

Sherlock paused and wondered how long John had been silently mulling over Sherlock’s sudden restlessness, trying to think of solutions. It was a nice thought and he decided it better not to mention that he had, in fact, walked the streets extensively while blindfolded and stopped only after Lestrade asked him to, following a very minor car accident Sherlock may have caused. 

“Sure. A walk.” Who knew, maybe a change of scenery would spark a fresh line of thinking. 

Outside, walking beside him, John was the sort of quiet he got when he was deliberating about what to say next.

“Sherlock, what’s been going on?” 

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? Monday you were practically catatonic when I left for work, now you’re--” John motioned to Sherlock’s nicotine patch arm. 

“I’m--working on something.”

“What? Did a client contact you? Lestrade?”

“Not exactly.”

“Are you…” John trailed off meaningfully. 

“Nothing stronger than the patches. Unfortunately.” Sherlock sighed. “I’ll tell you more when I’ve made some progress.” 

John, looking dissatisfied, started to say something more, then shook his head and changed the subject to some dull thing that had happened at work. Sherlock continued to turn the puzzle piece over and over in his mind, and still couldn’t think of any better move than to show up Friday night and work from there. 

The next two days passed at an agonizingly slow pace, but at long last Friday evening arrived. Sherlock tugged the suit package out from under the bed and ran his thumb over the material. He supposed he could at least try it on. Everything fit perfectly--as expected, he guessed. He glanced at himself in the mirror and blinked, a little startled. Maybe Moriarty was onto something with the “good suits make you look taller” bit. He cut a fine figure in the three piece suit, and the color definitely drew attention to his eyes. Even the horrible gold tie contrasted beautifully against the fabric. His shoes suddenly looked very shabby in comparison to the rest of the ensemble. He edged into the common area to wait. 

John glanced up, gave a bark of laughter, and sat staring, mouth open. Sherlock glowered. “What are you looking at? Close your mouth, you look like an idiot.”

“What are you--where are you going?”

“Out.”

“I feel like I’m talking to a teenager. Where out? Are you meeting someone?” John turned his head quizzically to the side and a slow smile spread across his face. “Are you going on a date? Is this what you’ve been ‘working on’”?

“No. I am not going on a date,” Sherlock spat. “I am working.”

John narrowed his eyes skeptically, still grinning. Blessedly, in this moment Mrs. Hudson stepped into the flat. 

“Sherlock dear, cab for you outside. Oh my! You do look nice, where are you going?” She looked to John. “Are you really going out like that, love?”

“ _ I’m  _ not going anywhere. Sherlock has a date.”

“Work.”

“Don’t stay out too late with work tonight.”

“Don’t wait up.”

Sherlock strode out the front door and peered into the back of the cab waiting outside. Empty. The driver stood waiting and opened the door for him to climb inside. A ride in silence eventually brought Sherlock to the concrete steps of what seemed to be a large event center. The driver let him out and he began towards the doorman at the top of the steps. 

“Evening.” Sherlock spun on his heel to see Moriarty stroll towards him from his place leaning against a pillar. 

Moriarty’s suit echoed his own--red jacket, black shirt, same gold tie. He extended an object as he approached: a mask. White with gold filigree detailing, feathers curling up around the edges. As Sherlock took and examined the mask, Moriarty produced his own and slid it on over his eyes. His was red and gold, black wood curving up into two hornlike tips at the sides. 

“Matching outfits. Adorable,” Sherlock said, glaring at the mask in his hands. “I don’t suppose this is optional.”

Moriarty ignored this and trilled a quick burst of air through his lips. “Mmm. You could look like this all the time, do you realize that?” He shook his head sadly. “Well, c’mon then.”

The doorman tipped his hat as Moriarty strode up to the doors. “Good evening, gentlemen. How may I be of service?”

Moriarty flashed a broad smile. “We’re here for the charity gala.”

“Of course, gentlemen. Right this way.”

The doorman ushered them in with a flourish. Inside, the lobby was high ceilinged and softly lit, with thick velvet ropes partitioning a path to a security desk which one man sat behind and another stood next to with his arms behind his back, looking bored. Both were immaculately and identically dressed in black suits, although (Sherlock noted) the wide shoulders, close cropped hair, and crooked knuckles of each man silently communicated they were ready for a fight, if fighting was necessary. 

The man behind the desk smiled politely as they approached. “Evening, sirs. Badge here, if you please.” Moriarty produced a card from his wallet and pressed it into the small pane of glass on the desk, which flashed blue as the guard hummed quietly to himself, scanning the screens in front of him. “Right.” Turning to Sherlock, “And you, sir?”

Moriarty placed an arm casually around Sherlock’s shoulders. “My radiant escort.” Sherlock grimaced. If the guard noticed this, he did not seem to care. “Of course.” He began rapidly typing and nodded his head towards the standing guard, who had produced a hand-held metal-detecting wand. “Empty your pockets here, if you would.” After the man passed the wand over the two of them with thorough, practiced movements, the first guard produced a pair of lapel pins, handing the first to Moriarty, the second to Sherlock. 

“Have a lovely evening, sirs.”

“Oh, I already am,” Moriarty beamed as he strode toward the elevators. “Come, darling.” 

Sherlock scowled in distaste and examined the pin as he trudged forward. The thick bronze circle was slightly larger than a bottle cap and engraved with a number: 384. As he reached the elevators, Sherlock noted that Moriarty had already placed his own pin (127) in his lapel buttonhole and begrudgingly did the same. An attendant stood patiently beside each glass elevator door, and the closest one welcomed them into the carriage. She used a key to open a small panel and press a button labelled “B5.” 

The three stood in a tense silence as the car descended. Sherlock tried to swallow the uneasy feeling rising in his throat and stop imagining what awaited them in the hotel basement. Staring ahead, he broke the quiet. 

“So we’re going to a charity gala.”

“It’s for the children,” Moriarty replied helpfully. 

At long last the car slowed to a stop and opened to...well, to what certainly appeared to be a gala. The cavernous ballroom served both as a demonstration of wealth and an ode to the designer’s apparent favorite color, black. Polished black marble floors, ornately detailed black vaulted ceilings draped excessively in black crystal chandeliers, two ornately filigreed black staircases leading to the large black balcony in the center of the room. Tall black cocktail tables lined the perimeter of the room, surrounding the round black dining tables set immaculately with black tableware. The center of the room had been left open as a dance floor; a small chamber of about twenty musicians (dressed in black) played beneath the balcony. 

If nothing else, though, the black room served as an effective backdrop for its 200 or so masked occupants, the mingling groups bright pops of color against the darkness. Less immediately visible than the guests were the attendants circling the room with bar carts, dressed in black except for white full face masks to unsettling effect. 

Almost immediately, Moriarty smiled and broke away to warmly clasp the shoulder of an umber skinned woman ( _ Parisian, arrived in London today, some sort of low level politician _ ). This was no small feat; even ignoring the effect of her stiletto heels and high-waisted crimson jumpsuit, she was easily over 6 feet tall. She turned to him, face obscured by a feather mask dyed to look like flames licking up her high piled hair, and laughed delightedly. 

  
“ _ Ça ne peut pas être Jim!”  _ She bent down ( _ stooped down _ , Sherlock mentally amended) to embrace him and exchange bises. 

“Nadège,  _ tu es magnifique comme toujours _ . _ Puis-je te voler un instant _ ?”

“ _ Oui, bien sûr _ .” The woman smiled sympathetically at Sherlock. “I will bring him back in a moment, darling.” Sherlock forced a smile and decided that he had been called “darling” far too many times this evening. 

“ _ S’'il vous plait, garde le _ .” As he spoke the pair was already walking away arm in arm, smiling and talking in hushed tones. Moriarty waggled his fingers over his shoulder without looking back. 

Fantastic. Sherlock wondered if he was being left alone to figure out the rules of this new game, or if he was being subjected to some sort of cruel punishment. 

“Howdy, pardner. You’re lookin’ mighty lost.” Sherlock turned and gaped at the caricature of a man beside him. Embroidered western shirt with pearlized buttons, turquoise bolo tie, $500 denim jeans, graying mutton chops, alligator skin boots, a silver and gold belt buckle the size of a saucer. His mask curved outwards into two longhorn bull horns. “I’m here by m’self, too.”

“Ah, just trying to get my bearings.” The man chuckled, shaking his head. Habitual drinker, judging by the rosacea; the discoloration definitely wasn’t from time spent out of doors. His face was flushed now and he appeared happily on his way to being drunk. 

“Yes?” Sherlock queried. 

“Nothin’. Just, I can’t get over y’all’s accents. It’s just like on the TV.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked upward in amusement and he immediately adopted an exaggerated English enunciation. 

“Blimey, this whole affair is like something off the telly. Blinding, it is.”

The other man laughed and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. “I like you. I’m Doug,” he said, extending a hand. Sherlock clasped it firmly. “Harry.” 

“What’d you call me?” More obnoxious laughter. “Just kiddin’, just kiddin’.” Sherlock wondered if the man had ever pronounced a velar stop in his life. “Whaddya’ll say? We’re mates now?” Doug guffawed as if he had said something enormously clever. Sherlock forced a laugh.

“Proper mates.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “So, what brings you here tonight?”

“I’m actually the auctioneer,” he beamed proudly. “You’ll be seein’ me onstage in just a second. We’ve got some good lots this year--you won’t have to go to these things alone no more.” He winked. 

Interesting. Sherlock was about to tease out further information when Doug glanced across to a nearby table and exclaimed. “Hey, mate, pardon me but I see an associate of mine. Gonna go say hello. I’ll see ya around here.” Doug gave a nod of acknowledgement and strode across the room where he began loudly greeting a slight Asian man in a red and blue mask. 

The other games Moriarty set up had been crimes to be solved. This time there were no set rules, no timeline, no clear objective...was Sherlock to figure out the puzzle on his own? The auction seemed at least a place to start; doubtless it was a place to move some less than legal goods. 

Sherlock caught a glimpse of something that subconsciously alerted him and he turned his head. The woman had attracted his attention because unlike the other guests, she was maskless. Not only maskless, but very simply clothed in an unadorned black dress, modest black heels, light makeup made to look natural, blonde hair pulled into a neat bun, no jewelry. She was unobtrusively collecting empty glasses at a cocktail table while the guests around her continued to chat. She also appeared to wear the same circular pin on her dress that Sherlock and Moriarty had been issued upon entry. 

“How’s your footwork?” Sherlock was jolted abruptly from his thoughts by Moriarty, who had reappeared behind him. Sherlock replied, “Quite excellent, thank you,” and made to step away when Moriarty grabbed him at the hand and shoulder, falling into a follow position as Sherlock’s right hand instinctively rested at the other mans’ shoulder blade. Moriarty stepped backwards and pulled the two of them onto the dance floor. The orchestra was playing a lively song in triple meter, and Moriarty began to back-lead a basic waltz. 

Sherlock felt a surge of irritation. Though Moriarty seemed competent enough a dancer, back-leading was aggravating on principle, and Sherlock knew that he was a skilled enough lead not to warrant it. He flung Moriarty into an aggressive spin pulled back into a side-by-side dip. If he was going to be forced to dance, he was going to dance well, damn it. Moriarty grinned delightedly in response, like a child who had finally been given their way, and lightened his step. They fell into an easy, quick rhythm. 

“Have you missed me terribly? Sorry to pop away like that, but you know how it is.  _ Networking _ .” The last word was accompanied by a dramatic eye roll. Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes in turn and swung him out one-handed to roll him back into side-by-side, transitioning smoothly back to open position. 

“I’ve been networking as well. Some...interesting guests here.” 

Moriarty sneered. “Interesting is a strong word. Influential? Sure. Important? Filthy rich? Absolutely. There’s one,  _ maybe _ two interesting people here tonight.” He offered Sherlock a crooked smile. 

“Are you going to tell me why I’m here?”

“I told you. It’s for the children.” 

So a no. 

Over Moriaty’s shoulder, Sherlock saw another maskless woman dressed identically to the first, differing only in height and her dark hair color. This one was cleaning a small spill near one of the larger tables. 

“Hey--my eyes are down here.” With deft movements Moriarty stepped across Sherlock’s body to move his hand behind Sherlock’s back and seize the lead. Evidently as aggressive in dancing as he was in, well, everything else, he pushed Sherlock into a spin that the larger man had to stoop down slightly to clear. As he spun Sherlock back, he slid his right hand further down and around Sherlock’s back to pull him into a closed position. The distance was close enough to smell Moriarty’s expensive Norwegian cologne and see the sweat beading at his hairline. Several heartbeats later, the song crescendoed into a close, prompting Moriarty to sweep Sherlock into a low, dramatic bow. This was followed by a smattering of scattered applause. Not many other couples had been dancing, and the pair had apparently amassed a small audience. 

Moriarty held the dip longer than was comfortable. “Either pull me up or drop me,” Sherlock hissed. The other man made a thoughtful face, as if considering the options, then pulled the two into a standing position. Sherlock stepped backwards to straighten his suit, angry to admit that the dance had been the most fun he’d had in weeks. 

A tall man dressed in white approached as the next song began, broad and blonde and vaguely menacing. He caught Moriarty’s eyes and nodded once. Moriarty sighed theatrically and offered Sherlock a pleading look. 

“I’ll be right back,” he mouthed apologetically, stepping away again. 

This was fine, as it afforded Sherlock the opportunity to continue investigating the maskless women. He approached the nearest bar cart to procure a glass of wine, took a dozen steps, then tripped into a table, spilling and shattering the glass. 

“Oh--terribly sorry, must have had too much to drink.”

As Sherlock anticipated, a maskless woman appeared momentarily and bent down to work on the spill. He noted the number attached to her pin: 405. 

“I really am sorry. Let me help with that.” Sherlock squatted down and reached for a piece of glass. The woman jerked her face up and made eye contact with a look of panic. She shook her head. 

“It fine.” A Slavic accent. 

“Are you certain?” She nodded with her head ducked down and continued to clean. 

Sherlock was rising to his feet when the music died down and a tall bald man in a purple suit announced from the stage, “Good evening, esteemed guests. Please make your way to your tables so we can begin the night’s festivities.” Party goers began to collect and settle down to the seated tables in front of the stage. Sherlock scanned the gathering crowd; thankfully, the scarlet suit made his extortionist difficult to miss, and Sherlock made his way over to Moriarty across the room. 

Moriarty’s mood seemed to have worsened in the interim, judging from his expression and the way he pressed his fingertips into his temples. 

“I’ve gotten some bad news. Don’t talk to me right now.”

Easy enough. Sherlock found a place setting featuring a black card emblazoned with a white 384. He sat, tapped his foot impatiently, and absently observed the other guests as he waited to see if his inference was right. The emcee did some ordinary boring gala opening proceedings--the welcome, the acknowledgements, the stale jokes, the blurb about the children the event would benefit. Eventually he finished blathering, asked them to enjoy the first course, and stepped offstage. 

Servers in black suits and full white masks brought out a palatable beef carpaccio. Moriarty stabbed murderously at the plate without eating as the other table guests made idle chit chat. Sherlock picked at the food while playing observation games to give himself something to focus on--who at the table was from what country? Who’s having an extramarital affair? Who had a cocaine habit? 

At long last, Sherlock’s good friend Doug appeared onstage and introduced himself. More bad jokes. Stagehands rolled a Victorian style settee out behind him so Doug could describe the item and begin bidding. Lot 548. No good. As patrons bid on and won lots, more lots were introduced. Lot 120. Lot 831. Lot 600. Sherlock grew increasingly agitated and drummed his fingers against his leg. Come on, come on, come on…

Lot 405 was finally called when most guests had finished their hors-d'oeuvres. Sherlock leaned forward in his chair and waited breathlessly as stagehands hauled out a large dining table. Doug cleared his throat. 

“Now this here is somethin’ special, 18th century Italian craftsmanship. It’s a lovely oval table, two removable leaves…” Sherlock ducked down from his to see underneath the Italian table and had to hold back a laugh of triumph. Fully varnished underside that perfectly matched the top--a fake. Moriarty glanced over and raised an eyebrow. 

“It’s just a beautiful table, don’t you think?” Sherlock remarked. 

Moriarty speared a mangled piece of beef. “Don’t think it’ll fit in your flat, dear.”

“We’ll start bidding at 50--do I hear 50?” Doug began the auctioning process. Even if the article was authentic, $50k was a gross overestimation of its worth. Nonetheless, men (and one woman) scattered across the room began eagerly bidding. Sherlock couldn’t fight the grin that spread across his face. A human trafficking ring: excellent. Now for his next move, he needed to find Doug.

As the first round of auctions drew to a close and servers collected used dishes, guests were dismissed to mingle before the next course was served. The orchestra resumed playing. Moriarty excused himself to make a phone call. Sherlock excused himself to the restroom and began scanning the crowd for mutton chops. 

“Ah, there’s Doug, my best mate!” Sherlock crossed the room in long strides. “My good bloke, I need a favor.”

“Henry!” Doug, now noticeably drunker, squinted his eyes and corrected himself, “no, Harry! Whatcha need, pardner?”

“So,” Sherlock dropped his voice to a stage whisper, “I need to know who I can speak to about more special lots. I’m interested, but I haven’t seen anything I want to bid on yet.” 

“Oh, that’ll be Erik. Lemme introduce ya.”

Eric turned out to be the slim man in the red and blue mask Doug was speaking to earlier. “Erik, Harry. Harry, Erik Wong.” 

Erik nodded. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Harry here was interested in some other of your lots. He hasn’t found quite the right one yet.”

“Yes, of course.” Erik slipped a slim silver business card holder from his suit and offered Sherlock a card identifying the man as  _ Erik Wong, Dealer _ . Phone number, email, no address. 

Sherlock gave a genuine smile. “Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll put this to good use.” 

When Sherlock returned to the table, Moriarty was standing beside his chair, rubbing his eyes and looking agitated. 

“Change of plans,” Moriarty grumbled. “Seems I can’t get a  _ single  _ night off. Got some cleaning up to do, so we’re leaving early.” Sherlock beamed. The night was only getting better. Moriarty offered an arm; Sherlock strode past him with a cheery spring in his step.

“Ready to go?” Sherlock asked. 

Moriarty had begun typing furiously into his phone and gave a grunt of acknowledgement. They returned to the lobby and exited onto the street. 

“Well, toodles.” An anticlimactic close to the evening, but Sherlock would take it. Moriarty continued typing and gave a small salute as he sauntered away, mumbling a string of threats and profanities. Sherlock took out his own phone and began an internet search for his new acquaintance Erik, and a few minutes of sifting produced the best possible results. Apparently Mr. Wong was also the president of a nonprofit that funded a homeless shelter, and not just any homeless shelter--the one refurbished from an abandoned warehouse six years ago. Everything was falling into place suspiciously well. Sherlock punched in Lestrade’s phone number and waited. 

“Sherlock?” came the groggy reply. “God, what time is it? What is it?”

“Tomorrow morning, go to the homeless shelter at the following address. You’ll want to get into the basement--insist on it, and bring backup.”

“I--alright, just let me find a pen…” After Lestrade had scribbled down the information, Sherlock hung up the phone and hailed a cab to return home. 

When Sherlock arrived back at the flat, he saw that John had nodded off in his chair with a book in his lap. Sherlock nudged his shoulder to wake him. 

“C’mon, you need to get to bed.”

“Sherlock?” John rubbed his eyes. “You’re back? How’d the date go?”

“Perfectly. Don’t worry, you can read about it in the paper tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation for the French dialogue: 
> 
> “That can't be Jim!” She bent down (stooped down, Sherlock mentally amended) to embrace him and exchange bises. 
> 
> “Nadège, you are magnificent as always. May I steal you for a moment?”
> 
> “Yes, of course.” The woman smiled sympathetically at Sherlock. “I will bring him back in a moment, darling.” Sherlock forced a smile and decided that he had been called “darling” far too many times this evening. 
> 
> “Please, keep him.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed the first chapter, please let me know so I have the motivation to actually finish this thing.


End file.
